My jaw tensed, and my hands curled into fists at my side. Violence hummed beneath my skin.
I forced myself to walk away from my antagonists. One foot in front of the other. Eyes forward. Shoulders rigid. It was how my father taught us to leave a room when we were angry.
You didn't swing first or lose control. You walked away until you could think straight.
In this case, thinking straight wasn't likely to happen at all.
Despite the chill, I drove aimlessly through the city with the radio off and windows down. Seattle sprawled around me, oblivious to my unraveling. Traffic lights. Coffee shops. People with someplace to be. I belonged nowhere.
My apartment welcomed me back with nothing that could provide comfort. I threw my keys against the wall and watched them slide to the floor.
Collapsing onto the couch, I pulled out my phone.
Marcus had called four times. His voicemail was sharp with protective anger: "Call me back. Now. We need to get ahead of this before they bury you. We'll fix this, Michael. But I need you to pick up the damn phone."
Matthew, always the peacemaker, had left a softer message: "Hey. I know you're probably... Look, just... call, bro. Whenever. I'm around."
Miles had taken a different approach. Three texts, each containing nothing but memes about punching lawyers. His attempt at humor raised a slight snicker.
I stared at Miles's last text for a long moment. My youngest brother always tried to lighten impossible situations. It was part of his personality and a vital skill for his work with trauma victims.
Before putting any more thought into it, I replied.
Michael:Not all lawyers deserve punching. Just most of them.
A reply came instantly as if he'd been waiting with the phone in his hand.
Miles:HE LIVES! Thought you might've fled to Canada by now.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Miles was Miles. He offered a tiny twinge of comfort. I wanted to tell him everything, but it was better to tell him nothing.
Michael:Not Canada. Too cold.
Miles:Seriously tho. You OK?
I wasn't. Not even close, but I knew that telling him would only worry him more, and I couldn't handle his concern.
Michael:Fine. Just need space.
The typing dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.
Miles:We're here when you're ready. All of us.
I put the phone down, fingers lingering on its frame. Shame weighed heavy in my gut.
It wasn't fair to call for help when you were the problem. It would only drag others down into your mess. Still, something in me screamed against the isolation, even as I enforced it.
My father's voice echoed from a memory so old I couldn't place it: "Stand on your own two feet, Michael. Nobody respects a man who can't carry his own weight."
So, I carried it all alone as the apartment darkened around me.
Night fell unnoticed. I didn't bother with turning on lights or eating dinner. My stomach was too tight for food.
Instead, I nursed a bottle of whiskey that had been a gift from the team after our last successful hostage extraction. The amber liquid burned going down, but it didn't dull the edges of my thoughts like I'd hoped. It sharpened them and pulled them into painful focus.
I couldn't stop replaying Tahiti in my mind—at least one part of it.
It wasn't the explosion or the accusing crowds.
